


All My Sins Remembered

by OrdinaryBird



Series: Too Much in the Sun [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Blood, Consent Issues, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Memory, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4257801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrdinaryBird/pseuds/OrdinaryBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos is home now, and he just wants everything to go back to the way it was. The way it should be. It's all over now. He knows it is.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Secrets and Lies

**Author's Note:**

> Here we begin staggering toward that happy ending I promised you. No specific warnings for this chapter.

“Okay. Hmm.” 

Cecil was going for optimism, but even to his own ears it sounded weak and tired. “Alright. Well that’s not so bad.” He looked away, nauseated by what he saw. “Better than I expected, honestly.” 

Carlos said nothing.

“Oookay. Well. This is probably gonna sting a little. The water should have loosened the gauze somewhat but it’s still sticking so--”

Carlos hissed through his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed. 

“Well that one is about as bad as I was anticipating.” Cecil watched a drop of blood from the newly opened wound slide down Carlos’ back, then spread through the water. He dropped the stained gauze onto the pile on the floor.

“Let me know if you need me to slow down,” he said, his voice gentle. “And I’d like to know what happened, if you can tell me.”

“I’d rather not.”

Cecil cupped his hand to catch some of the bath water and carefully poured it down Carlos’ back. “Try to be still,” he said, as Carlos tensed.

“Sorry,” he said, “It just--it stings.”

“I’m sure it does.” 

There was a pattern of wounds in various states of healing. Some looked elaborate and ritualistic, some what could almost be described as doodling. Spread throughout were angry, vengeful slashes. _What did he use?_ Cecil thought numbly, dabbing a damp cloth carefully across his back. _How? Why?_

“Can you at least tell me how they happened? It might be--relevant.” Keeping his voice steady through that sentence put all his years of public speaking experience to the test. 

“There are certain things about me I don’t want you to know.” Carlos’ tone was flat. He’d petitioned to go to bed immediately, but Cecil insisted on seeing to his injuries.

“Carlos. Dearest. Whatever he--whatever happened, it isn’t your fault. No one could blame you for a second of it, and nothing you say could change my opinion. You shouldn’t have to carry this around like it’s something to be--ashamed of, something you did.” He dabbed gingerly at a bit of dried blood by a scabbed-over slash. “Nothing you could say will make me love you less.”

_Damnit, shouldn’t have said the word love, it wasn’t the time for that, foolish Cecil!_

“It’s not that--I just--” Cecil saw his hands tighten into fists. “I don’t want you to see this every time you look at me. I don’t want to hear your voice change when I say it. It will change how you see me. And _don’t_ give me that look, I know it will. I just...I don’t want this--this thing to be the sum total of me.” He rested his head on his knees. “I just want to forget it all and move on.”

Cecil didn’t have an answer for that. He might have, some other time, when his brain wasn’t three steps behind and his body wasn’t dragging and his heart wasn’t still on panic alert, waiting for Carlos to turn on him with fear and pain and hate in his eyes. Instead, he cleaned the wounds in silence, staring at an ornate spiral next to a crudely crafted sun, willing them to make sense. 

There was no magic to them, no power, at least none that he could sense. It was pointless except that it caused pain, and showed that Kevin had had enough control over Carlos to--

He squeezed the cloth hard and watched the rust-colored drops fall into the water, spreading an orange tinge. 

“Alright, that should be good. Looking much better now that they’re cleaned up. I’ll bandage them again after we’re--”

“I’ve got it from here,” Carlos said. He didn’t look at Cecil.

“Right! Sure you do. Okay. See you when you’re done.”

He backed out of the bathroom slowly, keeping his eyes on Carlos until the second the door closed.

Okay. That was done with. But there was so much more to do. And he was going to take all of it--Carlos had enough to worry about--

( _and you need to prove his fears wrong, prove yourself all over again_ )

\--but he was so tired, to his creaking bones and his dry, red eyes that didn’t even have tears left in them. He’d have to shower after Carlos was done, then get things bandaged again ( _and not ask about it, or say anything, or sigh or make a face_ ), and then he could sleep, and hopefully not dream about anything at all. 

When did he sit down? He was on the floor in the hallway, leaning against the wall. He tried not to think about Carlos ( _his sweet, naive Carlos who had paid such a heavy price for his instinctive trust and kindness_ ), or Kevin out there, somewhere, knowing how to get to Night Vale, or going back to work and trying to sound like he didn’t feel anything at all. Or Janice, who now had two uncles to worry about, bless her sweet soul, or Abby--

_Shit._

He wrestled the phone out of his pocket and hesitated over the call button. She was going to be pissed. And could he keep it together long enough to talk to anyone right now? It had taken all of his energy stone-facing his way through Carlos’ injuries.

He pushed the button. _Too late now._

“Oh!” Abby sounded bright and sarcastic and he could have punched her for it. “May I ask who’s calling please?”

“It’s me, Abs.”

“Who?”

“It’s Ce--look, now is not the fucking time.”

“Cecil? Hmm, oh right, my _brother_ who has finally remembered how to use a _phone_.” 

He could not, apparently, handle a phone call. “We’re home safe, nothing to worry about, goodbye Abby--”

“Wait.”

He waited. He sighed, and didn’t care that she could hear it. “ _What_.”

“Are you okay?”

_The hell do you think?_ “Yeah. Just--exhausted.”

“You said ‘we’. He came back with you?”

“Yes. It took a bit.”

“Cecil, _what did you do_?”

“What are you implying?” He was starting to shake.

“Nothing! Just--he came back willingly?”

“No, I picked him up and stuffed him in my pocket.” 

“Do you want me to go over there?” Her voice had softened. “I can help.”

“No, thank you.” He was stiff, brisk and to the point. “I am going to take the most profoundly gratifying shower of my life, and then I’m going to sleep until Tuesday of next week. It is possible that I died of exhaustion and was just too busy to notice.”

That was supposed to be light-hearted. It settled grim and heavy like a stone in the mud of this conversation. 

“Okay. Well. You get some rest. We’ll talk soon. Let me know if you need anything, I can--what?” There was a brief pause and muffled voices. “Steve says he’ll make you a casserole.”

“Please tell Steve that the last thing I want is a fucking casserole.”

“Just take it, will you?” She huffed. “Okay. Go clean up. And I mean it, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Right.” He hung up and tossed the phone across the carpeted floor. Apparently even his own sister thought he was a manipulative monster who would coerce his own boyfriend into doing things he didn’t want to do.

_Well he was her brother, too._

He should cook something. Or find--something. In the cabinets. He hadn’t been gone too long, there had to be something still in edible condition. 

Right. He’d get up and find them something to eat. Soon. In just a minute. 

 

“Hey.”

Cecil jumped, suddenly very awake. He assessed his surroundings quickly. Carpet. Hallway. Carlos, angry. Carlos, not angry, in towel.

Oh, right. Home. 

“Sorry. I just wanted to let you know the shower’s free.”

Cecil rubbed his eyes. “Right. Great. Thanks.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They’d reached a conversational roadblock and stared at each other for a few seconds. 

“Well, I’m going to bed.” Carlos sounded so weary, so old all of the sudden. 

“Right. Oh--hey, Carlos?”

He turned without saying anything, half smiling, and _yes_ that was his Carlos, tired and careworn and wary but the light was on in his eyes, for just a second. Cecil pulled himself awkwardly to his feet.

“I can, uh, sleep on the couch. If you’d be more comfortable.” 

“We banged each other up pretty badly, I don’t think either of us should be alone, just in case.” He smiled weakly. “But thank you for offering.”

“Sure.”

In the shower, he gave himself five minutes. Five minutes to feel the ache in his muscles and the stiffness in his joints, five minutes to fear and hurt and mourn what might have been left in their past, to curse the Smiling God and it’s vile acolyte and his own voice to high heaven and low hell. 

 

When he woke up the next day, the scheduled appointment had dropped neatly into his head. He’d suddenly always known what time and where he was expected to be. He was unsure of how to explain any of this to Carlos.

It was well past breakfast. He made a late lunch of ginger-plum omelettes and frozen waffles, which they ate in silence at the table. It was a relief to see Carlos eating well, although Cecil was fairly certain he caught him smelling his waffle intently, as though expecting something to be amiss in the meal.

But he smiled and cleared his plate and still hadn’t tried to kill Cecil again, so they were probably in the clear. Carlos was still clearly in pain, his range of motion still limited by the injuries to his back and shoulders. Cecil resisted the urge to ask again what had happened. 

The question, he realized, was no longer _what_ had happened. He had a rough idea, an idea that made his hands clench in his lap as Carlos winced and leaned forward in his chair, that twisted his stomach as he discreetly hid half of his meal, suddenly too sick to finish it.

What he really wanted to know, but feared hearing, was _why_. And how. And to what purpose.

“We should make a doctor’s appointment for you,” he said pleasantly, hiding his clenched fists in his lap. 

“Oh, no, I’m sure it’ll be fine. I think I’m doing better.”

“Still. A professional opinion would be helpful.”

“Trust me, Ceec,” (and oh what a relief it was to hear the little smile in his voice when he said that!) “I’m okay.”

“You’re not a doctor, Carlos.”

“No,” he said, and here the pleasant intonation evaporated, and his voice grew tight, “but I am a scientist.”

“I still think--”

Carlos snatched his glasses from his face wearily and through them onto the table, then rubbed his eyes quickly, his face twisting. “ _I don’t want anyone to see this._ ”

Cecil waited. He wanted to say _you have nothing to be embarrassed about_ or _trust me, they’ve seen worse, this is Night Vale General we’re talking about here_ , but he didn’t want to be pushy or overbearing or--or--

_controlling. Call a spade a spade._

“It’ll heal fine. I feel much better today. We can look after it at home.”

_Oh._

“I didn’t mean--” Cecil gestured vaguely with his hand in a way he hoped would indicate the indescribable physical trauma, which was beyond the point of words. “That hospital isn’t the best place to go for physical injury anyway. I was just thinking that talking to someone about what happened could help us--understand how your thoughts are working right now. How they’ll change.”

“I think things are getting back to normal. I just--want things to be normal again.”

“Well!” Cecil said, far more cheerfully than he felt. “Seems to me like the fastest way to do that would involve a doctor, hmm?”

He kept glancing at the clock on the microwave while he washed the dishes. Carlos had offered, but he didn’t quite have the range of motion for it yet. While he washed, he fretted over what to tell Carlos. The time was drawing closer and closer and he still didn’t even know what to say.

He had to leave. He had to say something. But how much to say?

“Um, Carlos? I gotta--do a thing. You know. I’ve got to go back to work soon and there’s a few things I need to take care of.” All of that was, strictly speaking, true. Sure, it didn’t quite go in that order and the ideas were, in fact, largely unrelated, but he wasn’t actually lying.

“Okay.” Carlos smiled pleasantly, if a little absently. He watched Cecil drying his hands with that same benign expression, but apparently wasn’t going to say anything else.

“I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here.” 

“The leftovers in the fridge should still be good, and there’s cereal too.”

Carlos nodded and looked back down at the papers in his hand. Old research? Cecil didn’t dare ask, didn’t want to interrupt. 

“Well, I’ll see you later, then,” he said.

He slipped his shoes on at the door and turned to ask Carlos if he still had a key--

but Carlos wasn’t at the table anymore. He was standing behind Cecil, looking a little preoccupied.

“Uh.”

“Yes?” Cecil found himself defaulting to Work Mode--pleasant, detached, eager to escape for fear of what will happen next, and he hated himself for it. He didn’t want to be uncomfortable with Carlos. If anyone should be uncomfortable right now it was--

“I.” Carlos coughed. He looked away, then back to Cecil. 

And then he apparently gave up on words, throwing his arms around Cecil’s shoulders and pulling him close. 

“Careful, sweetheart, you’ll pop your wounds open again,” he said. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Resting them anywhere but his back might be too intimate, but his back was most certainly off limits.

In the end he kept them at his sides.

“Bye,” Carlos whispered.

Cecil locked the door behind him and checked it twice. He turned right at the end of the walkway and didn’t look back. He didn’t check out of the corner of his eye to see if Carlos was watching from the window, and he didn’t look behind to see if he was being followed.

After two right turns and a left, he heard the brakes squeal. That he expected. What he did not expect was the sudden _whoosh_ of a musty black bag being pulled over his head.

“What, are you kidding me with this--it’s _me!_ ” he shouted as he was dragged into the van. 

After a few minutes of driving they took the hood off. He passed the rest of the drive glaring in silent disapproval at the two slightly embarrassed looking Secret Police Officers.

“Sorry,” one of them whispered finally, pointing up. “Orders from above.”

There were two sharp pounds on the roof. Cecil was pulled from his seat and guided out into a large warehouse. At a folding card table sat a man in an ill-fitting suit, sipping from a foam coffee cup. 

“Ah, Cecil,” the Sheriff said serenely, “I’m so glad you could make it.”

As though there was an option. Somewhere along the line, he’d learned that an affectation of pleasantness was more threatening than out and out force, and he’d really made it work for himself. He waved Cecil towards the wooden kitchen chair on the other end of the folding table. “Please.”

Cecil sat.

“Was all this necessary? I’ve seen the office. I’ve _slept_ in the office. And do they think I don’t know when I’m being driven around in circles?”

“You’ve been out of town,” the Sheriff said with distaste. “I saw no reason to take chances.” He cleared his throat loudly. “I thought we should discuss the ways in which this trip will not affect your work. I’ve heard what happened.”

“How much do you know?”

The Sheriff stared at him blankly for a moment.

“Let me tell you what happened. Your young man got himself into trouble in the desert and sent you some very confused communication. You, loving partner that you are, abdicated the responsibilities your community entrusted you with to rescue him.”

“But--”

The Sheriff held up a hand for silence. “You did so and brought him home to nurse back to health. Heatstroke and hallucinations resulting from a low soul strength. Your scientist is fine now. That is what happened. Goodnight, Night Vale, et cetera.”

Cecil shook his head and looked away. “Unbelievable.”

“It’s for the good of the whole community, Cecil. We have secrets that must remain safe, mysteries to be left unexplored.” The Sheriff gestured vaguely towards Cecil’s throat. It could have meant _leave your voice as one of those mysteries_ , or, possibly, _I could strangle you with ease and almost no consequences_.

“I wasn’t going to say anything about that,” he huffed. “But what about Kevin? I mentioned Kevin before I left. Kevin was the whole reason I was worried in the first place.”

“Hallucinations.” The Sheriff shrugged. “The Desert Bluffs threat was neutralized when the Night Vale offices of Strexcorp were purchased. All that unending sun and abandoned architecture and his own unhealthy curiosity caused...flashbacks.”

“It’s not going to fly.”

“You’ll make it fly.” The Sheriff leaned forward with his gloved hands on the table. “Do not mention Kevin. Do not mention Carlos’...condition. So help me, Palmer, I will _drill this into your head_ if I have to.” He sat back and crossed his legs again. “His as well, if necessary.”

Cecil glared at him.

“You’ve gotten bold,” the Sheriff said nastily. “Keep in mind that you’re only tolerated because you’re useful. And you may not always be as necessary as you are.”

“Yes, I remember the experiments with the vocoder. And the recordings you commissioned for them. But you know there’s more to this whole--thing--than just a series of sounds you’d like to replicate. There’s no one else in Night Vale who can tell you what actually happened. Even if they’d seen it, they wouldn’t have any idea what they’d seen.”

“You don’t understand it all.”

“I understand enough.”

The Sheriff sipped from his coffee cup, suddenly calm again. “And what did you see?”

“Synthesis.”

There was a tense pause. He set the cup carefully on the table.

“In what context?” the Sheriff was having a harder time maintaining his serenity, now. 

“I saw...what he did, I heard what he was told. He wasn’t given instructions. Kevin was implanting thought patterns. And when I spoke to him later, he wasn’t just parroting back conditioned responses. His brain generated content based on the imposed ideas.”

“Redactive?”

“Redactive.”

“You’re sure?”

“You think I don’t know redactive conditioning when I see it?”

The Sheriff whistled between his teeth. “Masters of us all. The holy grail. Is he still synthesizing?”

“He’s not responding to Kevin’s conditioning anymore.”

“No, I mean, is he synthesizing off of your corrections?”

“ _I didn’t correct anything._ ” Cecil swallowed hard, feeling his hands squeeze into fists. Did everyone think he was willing to _correct_ his partner just to get what he wanted? “He shook it off. I don’t know how.”

“Really?” The Sheriff seemed amused. “You haven’t figured that much out?”

“I can’t think of anything. It’s not something that can generally be shaken off, that’s the point. That’s why I don’t--it’s supposed to stick. I mean, he is a scientist, but would that really have an effect?”

The Sheriff laughed, a cold little sound in the warm stillness of the warehouse. “Oh Cecil. You dear little thing. You can’t think of anything?”

“No. I can’t even shed a conditioned response like that and I’m--”

“Cecil. _Where were you born_?”

“Wha--I d--oh.” Cecil stammered his way to realization. “Oh.”

“He wasn’t brought up to respect the importance of the silence in his own head. Very inconvenient, but it’s proved useful, for once. He’s porous with questions, and whatever concrete Kevin tried to lay just...seeped through.” The Sheriff ran a finger over his lips thoughtfully. “You said he gave ideas? No commands at all? Could you do that?”

“ _No._ ”

“I didn’t ask if you would. I want to know if you _could_.”

“I don’t know. And we’re never going to find out.” Cecil wrapped his arms tightly over his chest and consciously pushed thoughts of his brother away. He could torment himself later with that.

The Sheriff laughed his cold little laugh again. “So very squeamish. Your morality is adorable, Cecil.”

“I want to ask you something.” That dangerous request tumbled out of his mouth before he even realized he’d been thinking it.

“Certainly, you can ask me anything,” the Sheriff said with a tight, close lipped smile. _That doesn’t mean I’m going to answer,_ he did not have to say.

“What do you know about the Smiling God? Imagery, rituals--anything?”

The Sheriff’s smile hardened on his face like a mask. “Go home, Cecil. Go home and nurse your confused little scientist.” He whistled once, short and sharp, waving a hand over his head. “Give my love to Abby,” he added as the black bag was forced over Cecil’s head again.

 

Cecil had gotten used to a certain pattern, by the end of the first week. He cooked, as well as he was able to, he discreetly kept an eye on Carlos when he insisted on doing household tasks, he found excuses to text on breaks to check in with him. 

So Saturday morning was a bit of a surprise--he pulled himself out of bed early, expecting to fix canned soup or frozen waffles or bowls of cereal, and found Carlos in the kitchen. Humming softly. Smiling. He still struggled to reach too far over his head or bend at the waist, but aside from the hissing of his breath he seemed to be coping with that alright, too. 

“Good morning,” he said brightly. 

Carlos. Lovely Carlos. A morning person, turning thin blue pancakes out onto a plate and pouring a charming attempt at coffee. Cecil decided, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, to drink the whole cup no matter how it tasted.

“Morning,” he said.

“I figured it was my turn to cook,” Carlos said, setting the laden plate on the table next to a jar of lilac jelly. “You’ve been doing a lot for me this week and I really appreciate it.”

“I don’t mind,” Cecil said, perhaps too quickly. “I mean--I like doing things for you.”

“ _I_ mind.” Carlos shook his head fast and smiled again. “Help yourself.”

They ate in silence. The coffee in his mug was shaking slightly, and Cecil realized it was Carlos, bouncing his foot rapidly under the table.

He should say something. But what? He could not be--like he was. Possessive. Manipulative. Controlling.

There was a shade of truth in what Carlos had said in the desert, the fuel for his rage. Maybe that truth was what allowed him to generate the thoughts from Kevin’s instruction. 

He needed to say something. Anything.

_Well, there is nothing you can say that could make me think less of you._

Why did he hear that _now_ , that hate and bitterness and anger? It stung as much as it had when Carlos said it the first time.

Because there was truth in it. 

He coughed into his napkin and pocketed half a pancake. It would be hell, getting the jelly out of the soft pink fuzz, but he felt sick and vile and he knew there was no way he could stomach it.

“Are you alright?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah.” Cecil put on his most cheerful smile. “Great. Absolutely fine.”

“This has all been...pretty rough on you,” Carlos said slowly. “You’re in relatively good physical health--thankfully I was far too weak in my delusional state to do you any real harm--but I’m sure those things I said weren’t easy to hear.”

“It’s alright, Carlos, I know you didn’t mean them,” and the second the words left his mouth Cecil replayed them in his mind, analysing the tone. Not even a low-level command. Not a hint of instruction. Just an unfortunate choice of syntax. Right?

“But I still _said_ them. And I’m sorry.” He paused and reached across the table, looking away, and the table shook faster. “I mean. I love you, Cecil. I’ve been scared to say it lately because, well, the things I said--when all that happened--they felt like truth. The same way knowing that I love you is true for me now. So I wanted to be. Um. Sure.”

_You needed to make sure you still loved me,_ Cecil thought, suddenly lightheaded. 

“I was so certain of what I was saying. I guess that’s how it works, isn’t it?” He laughed awkwardly, then cleared his throat. “The whole distinction between lies and truth because irrelevant when your sense of reason has been hijacked. And I just...I felt I owed you consideration. I didn’t want to disrespect--this. What we have. What we’ve built here.”

There was silence at the table. Cecil, for lack of anything else to do, reached across for the open hand that had been extended to him. 

“Does that make any sense?” Carlos asked.

“Oh yeah,” Cecil lied, “I understand completely.”


	2. Well and Ill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY there's a part of this chapter that may be triggering for people who've survived abusive situations. It's near the end (second to last section), and it's not graphic but it might be a little intense.

Carlos wasn’t having nightmares. Well, not in the traditional sense--he didn’t rocket awake, gasping, he didn’t find himself crying, he didn’t scream himself out of sleep. He just--saw things, and felt things, and heard

\--and then his eyes opened, and he struggled to orient himself ( _bed, home, Cecil bed safe_ ) and slow his breathing.

And in the far corner of the bed the blankets would shift, and Cecil would inhale suddenly and turn over, reaching a still-sleeping hand for some part of Carlos (his back, his arm, and, on one occasion, slapped against his cheek). And Carlos would wonder for a second if he could feel his heart, pounding like feet on pavement, running, running.

And then he would doze off again, soothed despite himself by the contact, reassured that it was never more than a hand, not needy arms restraining him, no hot wet breath on his neck.

By morning he would have forgotten the details of the dream, rinsing off the residual contamination in the shower.

His body was healing fine, and his heart would follow, and everything would be wonderful again.

 

“You still have to go to the doctor,” Cecil said, his words blowing steam from his coffee cup. “I pulled all the strings I have to get the appointment as early as possible so you can get it done and over with.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary.” Carlos waved him off, spooning sugar into his cup.

“Carlos.”

“ _Cecil_.”

They stared each other down across the table.

“I’m worried about you,” Cecil said finally.

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

“You don’t sleep through the night. You won’t--talk to me. You can’t just--Carlos _please don’t ignore me._ ”

Carlos could have said so many biting things. About possessiveness, about similarities. He swallowed them with his scalding coffee, because they weren’t fair.

Carlos reminded himself sternly that it was all from a place of love, that he was just worried.

( _You’re worth worrying about_.)

He shook his head slightly to dislodge the voice that memory came with.

“Carlos? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Carlos laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been staring for--” Cecil stirred his coffee without looking up again. “You’ve been staring off. Please--just listen listen to me. I would feel better if you went and talked to someone. Someone who knows about what you’re dealing with. Humor me, will you?”

 

Finally, he was physically comfortable enough to go back to the lab.

He felt secure, safe (well, safer, more secure, and rationally he knew he would feel better as time went on). He fed the rats and rubbed their heads and put Sven on his shoulder.

“Hey there beautiful,” he said, “wanna ride?”

He slipped Sven treats while reorganized and dusted things..

“We left this place a mess, didn’t we? To be fair, it was kind of abrupt.” He peeked at the little white friend from the corner of his eye. “Don’t give me that look. I’ve seen the things you’ve eaten, you’re in no position to judge me.”

It would take some getting used to, being back here. The lights felt too bright, and his vision blurred a little. Probably all the dust.

“Ahh--shit.” He spoke before his brain even registered the accident. The beaker hit the side of the table, and like an idiot he’d tried to catch it. Instead he caught a piece of broken glass.

The lights were suddenly far too bright.

“Down you go, buddy,” Carlos said, stumbling slightly as he set Sven back in his cage. “You’re cute but I don’t need to be introducing your bacteria to an open wound.”

He opened his hand carefully. It was absolutely nothing like the broken beaker injury from the desert, this one was on the side, and it wasn’t as deep, and--and--

_and Cecil wasn’t going to keep forgetting about it and squeeze that hand until the scab broke, or--_

It was not, strictly speaking, a flashback. He knew where he was, wasn’t thrown bodily into the icy river of memory, too startled by the cold to move. It was more like ice water poured over his head--he was wet, he was cold, but the shock was over almost as soon as it had begun. In its wake, it left a pervasive sickness. The problem was, he was too aware of where he was and what he had left behind.

While he cleaned the injury, he pointedly did not think about Kevin’s oddly cold lips against the hot broken skin. He continued to not think of it while he swept up the broken glass, or while he put away the rest of the glassware, as slowly and cautiously as necessary to prevent another accident.

Of course, not thinking about something was, in effect, thinking about it. He shook his head quickly to shake the image, hummed frantically under his breath to dislodge the sound of that voice.

 _You can’t fix it now,_ he told himself firmly. _You participated. You made a choice, based on assumptions, not evidence; you let suggestion supplant reason. And you were happy to do it. Some scientist you are._

Carlos understood, on some level, that he wasn’t being quite fair. Still, it felt better letting himself have some measure of accountability.

It was the shame, he realized, that was so unbearable, that made his skin crawl and his teeth itch. The physical pain had dulled with the passage of time, the fear and anger were late to arrive and were therefore only tangentially attached to the distress.

_You smiled and you let it happen and then you justified it all._

He sighed heavily and looked around the lab. He used to be safe, here, once. Of course now he carried the danger around in his pocket, so was anywhere safe?

Maybe he just wasn’t ready to be back. Better give it some more time.

He closed his eyes for just a second--

\--and startled awake on the living room floor, his clumsy hands shoving a cold rag off his forehead in a panic.

“Calm down.”

He tried to place the voice, tried to slow his breathing. “What--what--” he swallowed. “This is my _home_ ,” he said finally.

“Sure is.” Earl came in from kitchen with a tense little smile.

“Why are you in my home?”

“Why were you on the floor?” Earl shrugged. “Here. Drink this.”

“What is it?” Carlos pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes. It was still so bright, even with the light off.

“Water. From your tap. I’ll refill it in front of you if that makes you more comfortable.”

Carlos stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and accepted the glass. He had no reason to distrust Earl. He barely knew Earl.

“Figured you were probably dehydrated, or something.” Earl sat crossed-legged on the floor, his face pleasantly neutral. “You locked the door. You left it open, but you did lock it.” He picked absently at the carpet. “Cecil know you’re blacking out?”

“I am _not_ blacking out,” Carlos said hotly. “I cut my hand and I got lightheaded.”

“So lightheaded you floated all the way home, huh?”

Carlos blinked at him.

“I saw you on the street. I thought something was--was wrong. So I followed you.”

“You followed me home.”

“I certainly did.” Earl’s smile was tighter, now. “What do you want me to do? My best friend is madly in love with you. He risked his life to bring you back here. I’m not letting you stagger through Night Vale and get hit by a car now.”

Carlos bit his lip. That was reasonable. _Cecil sacrificed so much for you,_ he thought bitterly.

They sat in silence for a moment. Carlos sipped his water. Earl was visibly trying to control his face.

“So,” he said finally. “What was the message?”

“Message?”

“The code. Whatever. The letter.” He cleared his throat loudly. “I’m a pretty good codebreaker. I just, I dunno, I have a feel for it, always have. Probably why I cook so well. Anyway. I spent three days with that letter. I missed sleep. I called into work. I scared my kid, Carlos. My boy.” He sought Carlos’ eyes and stared into them, placed his hands firmly on Carlos’ shoulders. “What. The fuck. Were you trying to say?”

“Earl. I didn’t write any code.” Carlos blinked and pulled himself carefully out of Earl’s grip.

“You what.”

“I didn’t--there wasn’t a code. It was--it’s complicated, but--”

“Complicated.” Earl made a soft sound that could have passed for a chuckle if there was any humor in it. “The letter was straightforward, but of course it was complicated.”

“It--it made sense at the time--”

“Oh! Oh good! It made sense--” Earl made the not-chuckle sound again, but louder. “I am so glad to hear that. I’m sure Cecil was very relieved when you explained that when you _ripped his heart out_ it made sense at the time.”

Carlos said nothing. His head felt fuzzy. Didn’t Cecil explain what happened?

“So tell me, Carlos ol’ pal,” Earl said, loudly, slapping Carlos on the shoulder, “did you mean when you said he was ‘self-involved’ and ‘intentionally holding you back’, or just the part about being ‘toxic’ and ‘instinctively manipulative’? Did you mean all of it? Any of it?”

“I don’t know anymore.” Normally Cecil couldn’t keep anything to himself, especially not when it involved Carlos. “Please, can we do this later? I can’t think right now.” Maybe he just didn't believe it? It was a pretty unbelievable story.

“Did you talk him into taking you back because you were bored out there? Cook up some sob story about how that eeevil Kevin made you do it when the fucking _science_ stopped being interesting? I’ve been friends with Cecil for a long time, and sweet heavens alive, I haven’t seen him open up like that in years. He wants so badly to believe that you really love him--”

“Please.” Carlos put his hands over his ears. He was tired and numb and couldn't parse the situation at all.

“You really meant something to him, you know that?” Earl’s eyes were bright and his tone was almost friendly, almost playful, but there was venom in it, the sense that if he did not laugh, he would scream. “Did you fake the whole relationship, or just the most recent developments?”

“Hello?”

Earl and Carlos both froze and looked towards the door. They hadn’t heard it open. Carlos wondered if Earl had forgotten to close it too.

“Carlos, you really shouldn’t leave the door unlocked--”

Cecil stopped short, staring at the two of them seated on the floor. “Carlos?” He dropped his shoulderbag and crouched between them. “Are you okay? What happened to your hand?”

Earl made a sound under his breath, that may have been “unbelievable” or, possibly, “interloper”.

“I’m fine,” Carlos muttered. “I guess I’m getting squeamish, just got lightheaded, that’s all.” He narrowed his eyes at Earl. “Your friend was kind enough to assist.”

Earl smiled that tight little smile again. “I think we should talk later.”

“I’m pretty busy, Earl, we’re down a couple of interns and Carlos isn’t well--”

“I’m _fine_ , I said,” Carlos snapped, but if they heard him, no one acknowledged him.

“Cecil. _Cecil_.” Earl waited for Cecil to look up from Carlos’ hand before continuing. “We should talk. Soon. Call me if you need anything.” He stood in a quick, fluid motion without placing his hands on the floor. “I have a dinner service.”

He walked out of the apartment without another word.

“Jeez,” Cecil said lightly, although his brow was furrowed, “what’s his problem?”

 

Carlos returned to his lab. He listened to Cecil’s broadcasts while he got it back in working order, talked to his rats, kept himself busy. The centrifuge was making that funny noise and that one cabinet in the back started generating cans of baked beans again, like it had just realized he was back to puzzle over them.

He was feeling better. He was fairly certain he didn’t actually need that doctors appointment, although Cecil was insisting. It was going to be matter-of-fact. In and out. Done and over. Their lives could go on after that.

He cooked dinner, two nights in a row. Cecil started resting his head on his shoulder again, reaching for his hand, and the love in his eyes was no longer so clouded with fear. Kisses lasted longer. Cecil did not call Earl.

And he thought it would be okay.

It was the closeness he wanted, when he reached through the sea of blankets, tentatively ran his fingers against the soft grey shirt Cecil had been wearing to bed since they got back. A sign, he figured, that there were no expectations, no demands of intimacy. That door, the shirt seemed to say, stays closed until you’re ready to open it.

He heard the half-sleeping gasp, felt Cecil shift in bed, uncurl, catch Carlos’ hands in his own. “Hi sweetheart,” he mumbled. “Everything okay?”

Carlos nodded, then realized he couldn’t be seen. Not with the thick, dark curtains pulled against the lights in the sky. “Yeah.” He slipped forward and pressed his lips, light as a feather, against Cecil’s closed mouth.

The sleepy chuckle sounded like music. Carlos kissed him again.

Cecil’s fingers were soft and hesitant against his bare chest, and Carlos noticed a deliberate attempt to avoid his back. The still-healing skin would be a patchwork of rough scabs and smooth scar tissue, and he couldn’t blame Cecil not wanting to contact that. His fingers moved reverently, Carlos’ name on his lips like a prayer, his mouth offering sweet, tender kisses to reestablish this--

_(no)_

\--this sacred--

_\--the most sacred bond, my precious sunbeam._

He got that squirming sick feeling inside, the itch in his skin, the flush of guilt in his cheeks that said you let that happen, idiot.

This wasn’t going to work.

_It isn’t very kind to start something and then not finish it, dear one. No, no, it’s fine. I didn’t mean it like that, silly! I was only saying--_

He had to say something. Cecil would understand. He wouldn’t be disappointed.

_I understand completely. As long as you’re happy, I’ll make do. I’ll be fine._

Honestly, he would probably apologize. Blame himself for Carlos’ hasty choice, his inability to commit to it.

“My sweet Carlos.” Cecil sighed dreamily against that sensitive spot behind his ear. He still sounded half asleep. Some detached part of Carlos noted how innocent this was, that Cecil was waiting for him to move, giving him all the space he needed to change his mind. Yet he was stuck, silent.

It wasn’t fair to him, really. Carlos wondered, through the fog in his brain, how much he could tolerate.

_Well that’s just not fair! How will you know until you try?_

“I missed you so much,” Cecil whispered. He stroked Carlos’ hair, slid his fingers down the side of his face. Still so--so innocent, so delicate, almost chaste.

Carlos tried to focus on what he cared about, what he'd wanted in the first place: that sleepy face he’d cherished in lazy mid-morning rapture, before, a hundred years ago, back when everything was okay.

He’d survived far worse things than Cecil’s soft and cautious touch.

_You didn’t seem to mind before! Oh don’t look at me like that. Come on. Give me a smile._

Carlos felt like he was underwater. Distantly, he heard his name.

“Carlos? Uh. Okay. I think we should--um. Call this off for now.”

“Carlos?”

He sunk further,

_Carlos can you hearmecarlossaysomething_

and he was swallowed up. The next few moments were a smear of impressions across his senses--a shifting of pressure over him, a burst of movement in the muscles of his arms, a shrill sound and a heavy thump, a tight squeezing in his head, a bright light on the back of his eyelids--

and his eyes opened, and he tried to orient himself ( _home??? dark bed home--Cecil?_ ) and he couldn’t slow his breathing down and he was certain Cecil could hear his heart thundering in his chest.

He heard a rustling sound at the foot of the bed. What had he done?

“Carlos.” Cecil’s voice was calm and even, only a little strained. “I’m staying over here. I’m not going to touch you. You have complete control over what happens right now. Do you know where you are?”

“I’m--we’re home. I’m sorry. What did I--I’m sorry, I'm _sorry!_ ”

“No, no, Carlos, it’s okay. It’s fine. I probably won’t even bruise, I come from hearty stock. It was my fault anyway, I should have noticed something sooner--”

 _ _I knew it, I knew he’d say that_ , _Carlos thought, and he tried to say “it’s not your fault” or apologize again, or something, but he didn’t have any words, suddenly, because he was too stupid to take care of himself, because Cecil had to suffer for it _again_ , keep sacrificing things that--

_Love is sacrifice, my dear Carlos! Love is surrender. Complete truth and complete trust._

“Fuck,” Carlos whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

_You do trust me, don’t you?_

“What happened?” Cecil asked gently. There was a click, and Carlos shrunk away from the dim light of the bedroom closet. Cecil stood partly in shadow, his hands out by his sides, fingers spread wide to show they were empty.

“I don’t know. I just sort of--I guess I spaced out, I didn’t--did I hurt you?”

“Nah. You--you moved very suddenly after being very still, and I lost my balance. That’s all. You didn’t actually do anything to me.” Cecil sat carefully on the edge of the bed and rested his open hands in his lap, and Carlos could see his face and didn't believe him for a second. “What happened?” he asked again.

Carlos looked at his hands, rubbed the itching scab. “It wasn’t a flashback,” he said abruptly, and even to his own ears it sounded defensive and a little hysterical. His heart seemed to be beating right behind his eyes and he was suddenly sweating. “I just remembered something very suddenly, and it caught me off guard, and I guess I got stuck on it. I knew where I was, I knew you weren’t--it just sort of blotted everything else out and I couldn't--it wasn’t a pleasant feeling,” he finished lamely. He didn’t spare a second of thought to telling Cecil the words that were still pressing against the edge of his consciousness, waiting for him to let his guard down again.

“Okay.” Cecil stood slowly and walked into the closet. Carlos watched numbly as he popped up on his toes and pulled down some thick blue fabric, the hem of the grey shirt riding over the top of his shorts. The tan skin of his back was smooth and unmarked and perfect.

“I got this before you came home,” he said, laying the heavy flannel shirt across the bed. “Absolutely not my thing, but it reminded me of you. I thought you’d like it. See, the buttons are little birds, isn’t that adorable?”

“Yeah,” Carlos said around the lump in his throat.

“Well, you’ve never seen this before, right? It’s absolutely new?”

“Yeah.” Something else seemed to be called for. “Thanks, Ceec.”

“That means,” Cecil said as he wrapped the shirt around Carlos’ shoulders, seeming very careful not to touch his bare skin, “if you can see this, or touch it, or even remember it--that means you’re home, right? Because it didn’t exist, for you, when you were there. So this shirt means you’re home, and you’re safe, and anything that wants to hurt you can have fun trying to get through me. You look skeptical--listen, I took out a pack of antiques, alright? I am formidable.” Carlos felt his heart start to slow, his breathing even out, and barely heard Cecil whisper, "I'll protect you."

 

 

“Ceec, I don’t need you to go in with me. This isn't the first time I've seen a doctor.”

“You’re shaking your leg.”

There was an impulse, for just a moment, to answer _actually, I am bouncing my foot, clearly you’re the one who needs supervising,_ but Carlos swallowed it down. It only barely made sense, generated solely from a petulant feeling of frustration, a sudden impulse towards rebellion.

“And anyway, I don’t know if you have the vocabulary to describe what happened. At least I can help with that.” Cecil’s nervous fingers tore small lines in the waxed paper cup he was clutching. “You’re in an unusual situation.”

 _Bullshit_. Since The Bedroom Incident, Cecil had backed off again, setting up his protective intentions as a barrier. His laughter was frequent, and tense, and shivery; there were three parts of Carlos he was willing to touch (hands, shoulders, knee) and two places he would kiss (forehead, corner of the lips). There was an unspoken apology behind every third sentence.

And there was absolutely no logical reason he should be frustrated by that. Generally, Carlos loved and admired his sweetness, his boundless capacity for concern. And he hadn’t even talked to Cecil about it, although he had formulated several conversation starters, ranging from _baby, I know this is coming from a place of love_ to _for fuck’s sake Ceec, I’m traumatized, not dead._

But it was difficult to discuss the frustration that came from Cecil’s perfectly innocent guilt, and the guilt Carlos felt for causing him that distress with his stupid responses. And the cycle perpetuated itself and Carlos wondered when he would lose control and say something he would regret.

Cecil checked his watch again, shaking his wrist to bring it around. It was a little loose on him. Had it been before?

“Okay, babe, let’s go.”

“Wait--” Suddenly, Carlos was nervous, and despite his earlier petulance he was glad Cecil was coming with him. “--isn’t someone--doesn’t like a nurse or something--”

Cecil blinked at him, touched his hand. “Dear Carlos. You’ve never even been reeducated before, have you? Come on.”

He lead Carlos down the hall, counting paces under his breath, stopping short at the space between the last two doors. He knocked on the wall and waited.

There was no point in asking for clarification. Carlos had long since learned that there were things in Night Vale he’d never understand.

The door they’d walked through opened so loudly he jumped. A man in a white coat and crooked tie stuck his head through and shouted, “Cecil! How the hell are you? Got your hearing back?”

“Hey, doctor!” Cecil was using the same voice he used when Larry Leroy hailed him in the Ralph’s. He spent his life pretending to be everyone’s best friend, and with few exceptions he tried to maintain the illusion as much as possible.

There was an excessively friendly laugh and a vigorous handshake.

“You must be Carlos, so good to finally meet you! And I’m glad to meet you, you know--in this context.” He waggled his eyebrows. “It could be worse. It could always be worse, remember that, Carlos.” He laughed and slapped Carlos on the shoulder, then closed the door he came through and led them down the hall to another door.

His pleasant grin dropped it closed. He leaned against it heavily. “Carlos. Have a seat please.”

Carlos stared between him and Cecil, who was also suddenly very sober.

“Carlos,” he said again.

He backed towards the exam table, still watching them as he sat.

“So what happened in the desert?” The doctor’s voice was soft and serious.

Cecil shushed Carlos before he had a chance to speak, then traced an arc in the air with his forefinger.

“Ah.” The doctor turned to the door and leaned against the wall, making a big show of pushing a red button. He laughed loudly. “Ahh, you're just worried about nothing!”

His face fell in the instant it took him to push the button again.

“Okay.” Cecil took a chair by the wall and crossed his legs.

“Does anyone want to explain what’s going on?” Carlos was trying to keep his voice calm.

“Faraday cage.” Cecil waved a hand dismissively.

“Tell me what happened, please.”

Carlos opened his mouth, but before he could form the beginning of the sentence, Cecil said, “At least two events, one up to an F, more or less. Difficult to say because it was--” he squeezed his empty hands together, as though hoping to catch the right words. “--organic, not mechanical.”

“Did you--”

“Don’t. Ask me. That question.” Cecil pointed a warning finger. “Every single fucking person has asked me, and no, I did not. I wasn’t involved at all.”

The doctor--Carlos realized with a sinking feeling that he didn’t know his name, or anything about him--watched Cecil warily. “Then who?”

“Who do you think?”

“Oh.” The doctor frowned tensely. “Did he make it back?”

“No. We don’t know what happened to him.”

So we’re treating an F--shit, two in the last year?”

“In the last month.”

For the first time, the doctor looked at Carlos for more than a fleeting glance. “How the fuck is he still standing?”

“Well, he’s in the room,” Carlos volunteered, “you could always ask him.”

“So you didn’t start the initial conditioning, and you didn’t recondition him--I say we start with a basic re-ed and see--”

“No need.” Cecil crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “He walked it off.”

“Impossible.”

“Nope. Twice.”

“Here’s the weird thing--”

“Oh, good, I’m glad you found something to interesting, shaking two level F scrubs in a month, I was beginning to get bored.” The doctor groped behind himself for his chair and flopped into it.

Cecil thought for a moment, looking into the middle distance. “How tight is your Faraday cage?”

“It’s solid.”

Carlos caught Cecil’s eye, and Cecil spared him a tight, nervous smile before looking back to the doctor. “Prove it.”

“I’ve been hoarding whole wheat bread in a strong box for months. Pasta too.”

Cecil nodded. “Okay. It was an F, as I said. Redactive, yeah? With synthesis." He bit his thumbnail for a second. "Stop looking at me like that.”

“The hell you say.” The doctor wiped his forehead, which was suddenly shiny with sweat, and pulled out a little penlight. “Follow this,” he mumbled as he shined it into Carlos' eyes.

Any pretense of professionalism was gone; the doctor merely prodded and stared at Carlos, pausing occasionally to swear under his breath or shake his head. Reflexes were checked, pulse was taken.

“I wouldn’t believe a damn word of this if I heard it from anyone else, Cecil,” he said finally, and there was a hint of accusation in his tone.

“I don’t even believe it.”

“I might,” Carlos said pointedly, “if anyone wanted to explain it to me.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll tell you later.” And Cecil--bless his sweet soul--smiled that smile, the one that said _I’ll take care of this, you just worry about keeping your head together._

And Carlos had had just about enough of Cecil taking care of him.

“No. _Cecil_. Do not.” The words poured out, angrier than he’d wanted and sooner than he’d anticipated. “I’m not fucking delicate, okay, I’m not damaged, I’m not broken, and it’s _my_ head and _my_ memory.”

“I’m sorry,” Cecil wet his lips nervously. “I’m just trying to protect--”

“Little late for that now, sweetie. Stop trying to spare my feelings and please--please just _tell me what he did to me_.”

The silence hovered like a cloud of smoke. Finally, Cecil cleared his throat and said, “You know that he...influenced you. With his voice. But it was, uh. It was really intense. Like, worse than--” Cecil cleared his throat again, louder, and looked away. “I’ve seen a lot of people after they were reeducated, like, a lot, and I’ve--never, it was never anything like what happened with you. I was...there. In the lab.”

“When I fainted?”

Cecil let out a shrill half-laugh. “You didn’t faint. You, uh. Oh. He. It was awful. What happened was--he--okay, imagine a book, right? A book about, like, alligators or something. And you take a page in that book, right, and you paste a blank piece of paper over that page. And on the top of that paper you write, like, ‘how to build a thermonuclear device’. And then you sit and watch the paper leech ink off the other pages in the book and generate a list of steps on building a thermonuclear device, all on its own.” He swallowed. “He did that to your brain. Metaphorically speaking.”

He looked to the doctor. “I’m worried that there’s some trick. Some--some secondary programming, that this is all part of some plan." And then, quietly, "I’m scared I’ll lose him again.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Neither is redactive fucking thought synthesis, but here we are.” Cecil chewed his lip. “If he’s been using his voice like this, if he’s learned how to do that, who knows what he could do.”

The doctor sighed heavily. “See, I have no way to test for that. Your options--”

“My options,” Carlos interjected hotly.

The doctor didn't even spare him a cursory glance. “Yours too. Look, either I do a full scrub or you just wait and see.”

Cecil rubbed his eyes, and Carlos realized he had never seen him so tired. “Okay. So we wait and see.”

“I have to turn this thing off before questions get asked.” He pushed the red button again. “So that’s that! I’m glad I could help you, Cecil, just delighted. You two! Ah. Go with my blessing, you crazy kids.”

“Thanks a million, doc, I owe you one.” Cecil beamed at him, but he still looked so tired, his voice strained.

“Any time--hey, you boys need anything else, you know how to get a hold of me, eh?” He opened the door and ushered them out. “Oh, hey, Carlos! Do you, maybe, want to be in a clinical research trial? The Greater Night Vale Medical Community would be interested to see--”

“No.” Cecil grabbed Carlos’ arm and pulled him back, placing himself in front of the doctor. “He absolutely does not.” He coughed and resumed, in his previous cheerful voice. “Oh, pardon me, got a little tickle. Yeah, he’s got so much work to catch up on, and now that we know everything’s okay he’ll be very busy. Right, sweetie?”

There was a momentary temptation to rebel. To push forward and insist on subjecting himself to anything Cecil disapproved of, anything that would give him a sense of autonomy. But Cecil was looking back at him, panic in his eyes.

“Oh, yeah,” Carlos said finally. “It’s gonna be...crazy, at the lab. You know. With the science.”

“Yeah, I hear ya, one scientist to another. Good luck to you both!” He turned disappeared into the dark behind a different door.

Cecil’s smile dropped. “Let’s get out of here,” he mumbled.


	3. Enemies and Allies

Shortly after Janice was born, Cecil and Abby entered into an unspoken pact: their arguments, which invariably descended into total war, would not happen if she was around. It was more important to both of them that she felt safe and trusting of both of them.

At some point, unfortunately, Janice had figured this out. 

“I’m glad you’re not dead, Uncle Cecil,” she said, sitting between them at the kitchen table, twisting one of her braids around her finger. 

“Me too, sweetheart.”

They sat in the relative silence, listening to the clock tick off irregular seconds. Abby bristled, shifting in her chair. “Baby, why don’t you go do your homework?”

“We didn’t have any.”

“Are you sure? If I call Ms. Fuller, she’ll tell me that?”

“We had a substitute.” Her poker face was impressive for a nine-year-old. 

“Janice, honey,” Abby said, very slowly, “I think you should go to your bedroom and put on some music and--draw. Or something.”

“But I want to see Uncle Cecil. He hasn’t been around since Uncle Carlos got hurt.”

Cecil chewed his lip and leaned forward in his chair. _Got hurt_. How did she know he was hurt? He hadn’t told anyone--

“Is he gonna be able to come over soon? He said when he came home he’d help me make another volcano model. And I made him a get well card but I want to give it to him myself. I’m very worried about him, do you think he’ll be okay soon?”

“Listen,” he said, “that’s what I have to talk to your mom about. So if you want him to be better soon...”

She eyed him skeptically, but she’d opened that door herself. She backed away from the table, eyes still on them, and sighed heavily on her way down the hall. She sounded weary beyond her years.

“Close your door and mind your own business,” Abby shouted after her. 

The last obstacle between them was removed. They stared across the table, seasoned veterans, each assessing the other’s position. 

“So,” Abby said, with a false brightness. “Have you talked to Earl lately?”

“Not since he broke into my house, no, I haven’t.”

“He didn’t break in, the door was open.”

Cecil sat back in his chair, let his fists curl up again. “I see _you’ve_ talked to him.”

“Uh-huh. And I was wondering when you were going to tell me how you got Carlos home. I bet he didn’t fit in your pocket.”

“What are you talking about?”

Abby drummed her fingers on the table. “That letter. The marked absence of a hidden ‘come get me out of here’ message, or even a hint that he wasn’t completely sincere. So either he meant it, and then bullshitted you for whatever reason, or--”

“--or I used my _wicked powers_ to spirit him away from the happy home he’d built with that charming young man from Desert Bluffs. Ah yes. That makes perfect sense. Do you want to hear what actually happened--”

“Yes, I’d be _fucking delighted_ to hear--”

“--or do you just want to insult me, again, with the implication that I would _ever_ do that, intentionally, to someone I love?”

“You do it all the time, Cecil! Do you remember what your job is?”

“It is so _easy_ for you to say--I’d like to see you try and get the entire population of Night Vale to run and remain calm at the same time. A low-level suggestion is not the same thing and you know it.”

“But it’s not always a low-level suggestion. Maybe--maybe it was like the incident last year, maybe you didn’t mean to do it but you--”

“--accidentally brainwashed the love of my life? Slip of the tongue, hmm?” Cecil jumped to his feet, knocking over the heavy wooden chair with a thump. He distantly heard classical music start playing from down the hall. “Abigail. You _know_ I couldn’t ever--”

“How could I know, Gersh? I’m not like you. You’re the anomaly, you have the gift!” She was on her feet now, too, and her voice took on a nasty edge. “And you haven’t always been responsible about using it.”

They both froze. The viciousness drained from her face in an instant, and she seemed to realize the weight of what she’d said.

“How long,” he whispered, “are you going to hold those mistakes against me?” He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Yes, I was once a selfish child and then I was a naive adult and we are all of us a shameful people following the silver tongue of a manipulative freak. Congratulations, you’ve fucking spotted it. Again.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He moved towards the door, his hands shaking. “It’s what you said. And I know it’s what you’ve always _thought_.”

“Wait, will you just--”

But he stormed out the door, slamming it behind him and cutting off the end of her sentence.

He tried to start the car, but he was shaking too badly to get the key in. Eventually he threw it to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest. He needed help. He needed someone to put an arm around his shoulder and pull his body against theirs and tell him it would be okay. He needed Carlos (Carlos needed him to be strong, to take care of things) or Earl (how could he go behind his back like that?) or Abby (she would look at him for the rest of her life and see evil).

He sat for a long time. There were no tears, and there was only barely a sense of pain. It was mostly emptiness. The wind howling through the space where family and love and compassion once were. He wondered for a moment about going home and ripping the layers of old newspaper off the bathroom mirror, seeing what kind of monster he really was.

The sun had begun creeping down the horizon when he was startled out of his numbness by a knock on the window.

“Hi Cecil!” Steve was as chipper as ever. “Gosh, I’m glad you made it back alright! Hey, did you get my casserole?”

Without thinking, Cecil whipped the door of the car open, smacking it into Steve's knees and almost knocking him down. He clambered awkwardly out of the car and threw his arms around Steve's shoulders.

“ _I hate you, Steve Carlsberg_ ”, he growled, and there were still no tears, but suddenly the ache in his chest was powerful enough to double him over. He clutched Steve tighter to hold himself up. “I hate you so much, I’ve been so horrible to you--I’m no good, I have never been good, not to you--and you’re the only one, you’ve never held any of this against me me even though I am so full of _hate_ \--” he pulled back suddenly, clutching Steve’s bewildered face, and his voice rose to a shriek. “Goddamnit, _why are you so nice to me_?!”

Steve smiled his dopey, ridiculous smile and chuckled. “You’ve been good to Janice. Before I even knew she existed, my little girl had you, and you’ve helped turn her into the person she is today. That’s all I could ever ask of you. And you’re so important to Abby--you’re the only other family she has left, and I know she gets kinda harsh sometimes but trust me, she gets harsh on me too, and it’s only ‘cause she cares about you and thinks she knows better. And, Cecil--you’re family. You’re my brother.” He pulled back a bit instinctively as though expecting retribution. “I know you’ve never liked that, waving your arms and shouting ‘no, Steve Carlsberg, I’m not your brother, I deny you!’ but--no matter how much you hate me, you’re family. You’ve looked out for Abby and my girl. I look out for you.”

Cecil watched him through swimming eyes. Gratitude and guilt fought a fierce battle in his chest, and he pulled Steve close again. How was the vile, detestable Steve Carlsberg somehow the most decent person he knew? He opened his mouth to say something--possibly _thank you_ , or maybe _you son of a bitch_. But what came out was, “I don’t know what to do anymore, I don’t know how to fix this, he did such horrible things to him and I can’t fix it, no one can--”

“Hey,” Steve said, in half an awkward laugh, “you been sleeping, buddy?”

“ _Don’t call me that._ ”

“Okay!” 

They stood for a long moment, and Steve hummed a little under his breath while patting his back gently. 

“Hey,” Steve said brightly, “you wanna ride home?”

Cecil pulled back again and stared at him for a second. He was smiling, and there was nothing behind that smile--no malice, no superiority, no cruelty, no concern.

“I can’t believe I’m asking this,” he mumbled, “oh gods. Steve--can we--go somewhere and talk? Just this once, we’re not making a habit of this.”

“Sure thing, Cecil! Come on in, Abby made iced tea--”

“ _No._ Not here.”

 

“There is an extent to which this is entirely my fault,” Cecil said, and it felt good to say that. Steve sat across from him on the bed of the truck with his benign, thoughtless smile. He didn’t affirm or argue. He just smiled, nodded, listened. “You know...why.”

“I’ll be honest, I have no idea how you figure that. I mean, even if you didn't do all that stuff, Kevin would still be able to, like, poke around in there, right? Or he would have found some other way to hurt him.” He looked around for a second before continuing, “It's not like he only did this because of your history.”

It was almost unfair--what right did Steve have to be so kind and understanding about this when he personally had suffered so much for this?

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Steve went on cheerfully. “I make ‘em all the time. Every single time I try to do laundry I shrink something. I almost got arrested again last week.”

Steve was a very simple creature. Of course he would consider his copious flaws as a person to be on par with the stains on Cecil’s tired old soul, and there was something reassuring like that. 

“If you want to talk about what happened in the desert, I’ve got time. And I know, you’re probably thinking ‘augh no why would I tell Steve Carlsberg anything?’ but...I know you don’t actually care at all what I think. So you’ve got nothing to lose.”

Cecil shrugged. “I told a doctor. The clinical details, anyway. There’s a lot I don’t know--that he won’t tell me--and it doesn’t matter anyway, there isn’t anything you or I can do about it.”

“Maybe there is something you just haven’t thought of yet. And you said he’s isn’t, like, all influenced anymore. Maybe you just have to wait it out.” He shrugged and waved a hand. "Ah, what do I know?"

“There’s--there’s more to it than that. He did something--physical. All these...marks.” Somehow the word _cut_ was too heavy to come out of his mouth, too personal. “I don’t know if they mean anything, if they can do anything to him.”

“Isn’t there any way to find out?”

“God, Steve, if I could just look it up, don’t you think I would have by now? If I could--” he stopped. But he could. Couldn’t he?

 

“ _Listen, Cecil. Two things you need to know: one, the letter was written to be taken at face value. I don’t know what he’s told you, but there was no code. Two, he’s had at least one major dissociative event--that’s why he was on the floor. I followed him home. Keep an eye on him but think before you believe what he says, okay?_ ”

“ _If I’m wrong about this you can punch me later, just let me know you got the last message. It’s a precaution, okay? I just wanted you to have all the information._ ”

“ _Don’t you give me any shit about calling Abby, alright, you trust him way too easily, you always have, and someone needed to know what doesn’t add up. I’m not saying he’s...bad. Just be wary. Keep your eyes open._ ”

Cecil set the phone down and drew in a shaky breath. The messages relit the fire of his anger--how could Earl not trust Carlos? And to think so poorly of Cecil’s judgement as to go behind his back--to talk to Abby about this?

But he’d have to swallow that, for now. Carlos needed him. And he needed Earl. Hopefully, Earl would accept that.

He always promised himself he’d make good with Earl. Stop taking him for granted. But it never seemed to happen, and all he could do was hope today was not the day he’d had enough of it. 

He picked up the phone. He found the name in his contacts list. He held his breath while he pushed the “call” button.

“Hey.”

There were multitudes in that word--frustration and fear, mostly--but the decades had taught Cecil that, at the very least, he wouldn’t get a guided tour through every mistake he'd made in last twenty-four hours. “Hi. Uh. It’s Cecil.”

“Figured that one out.”

“Yeah. I--I got your messages.”

“Good. Did you actually listen to them?”

_Stay calm. You need his help._ “Yes, Earl, I did. But you’re not in possession of all the facts, okay, he did something to Carlos--he, uh, influenced him. Heavily.”

“Shit.” There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. “Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that. He can do that? Like--” More silence. “--like you do?”

“Worse.”

“Fuck. Hang on--” And then, muffled, as though he was trying to cover the phone with his hand, “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it, kiddo. Dinner’s in like ten minutes, okay?”

Roger Harlan always seemed to be in Cecil’s mental blind spot. And now he felt much worse about what he was about to ask. 

“Listen. Earl, I, uh, need a favor.”

“Go on.”

“I need to do some research.”

There was a pause, the most tense and disbelieving pause Cecil had ever heard. “Cecil. No.”

“I have to get into the Library.”

“No, you absolutely do not. And I--” Earl’s voice dropped to a hasty whisper. “I can’t just disappear into the night to go fight Librarians. I mean, what about Roger? What about--Cecil, no.”

Cecil threw his glasses across the table and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to find a way--that’s the only place I can think to find--”

“What? Stuff about re-education? I think you have a pretty good--”

“I need to know about the Smiling God.”

“No. No way. Not the Library.” There were noises from the other end of the line, shuffling and clinking. “Go to the Archives.”

“Earl, you _know_ no one gets into the Archives, there’s no way I could swing that.”

“If anyone can, it’s you. They fuckin' owe you.”

“It doesn’t work like that!” And Earl, of all people, should have understood that. Better than anyone. 

“After everything you did--think of how they tried to _repay_ you before. And you know they’ll have something you can use--” More rustling. “It really is fine, I promise. Yes, Scout’s Honor. Go set the table, I won’t be a minute.” To Cecil, he said, “Listen to me. They think they’ve got you under their control. Remind them that they do not. Go down there and balance the ledger.”

“What about Carlos?”

“I can pop over there tomorrow. Make sure he doesn’t wander.”

“Think you can skip the interrogation this time?” Cecil was unable to keep the nasty edge out of his voice.

There was another unpleasant pause.

“Look, I gotta go.” 

After he hung up, he leaned forward, suddenly dizzy. There was no way to negotiate with them. As the Sheriff had said, he may only be useful for so long. Maybe this would be the moment the City Council decided he was more trouble than he was worth. He might not even make it out of City Hall if they felt threatened enough. 

“You okay?”

Cecil sat up suddenly and jumped to his feet. “Yeah! Fine. Just tired. It’s been a long one.”

“I can see. You look awful, babe.”

“Yes, thank you, you’re very observant.”

But Carlos was staring at him, and reached forward to touch his face gently. “Did you eat today?”

“Yeah, I had lunch at work--”

“Cecil. Coffee is not lunch." He smiled tightly. "I know you, old devil.”

_Old devil_.

Cecil felt terribly dizzy again.

“Come on,” Carlos was saying, “sit down. I’ll get you a snack.”

“I’m fine, I promise. And I should be--”

But he was gone already, socks muffling the sound of his feet on the linoleum floor, and Cecil heard the fridge open and close. He was back in a few moments with half an apple and some cheese. “Try to actually eat it this time, okay?”

How did he--?

“I did the laundry yesterday.” He put a hand on Cecil’s knee. “I thought you liked my pancakes.”

Cecil laughed nervously, and with a shaking hand he picked up the apple, wondering how he would swallow past the lump in his throat. 

“Try it with the cheese,” Carlos said brightly, “it’s an interesting compliment. See, from a scientific point of view, the human taste buds--”

He stopped speaking when Cecil closed the space between them, abruptly wrapping his arms around Carlos’ neck and burying his face against the familiar curve of his shoulder, feeling the most beloved stubble in the entire world brush his temple. Because that moment was the Carlosiest he had been since Cecil spotted him watching his hands in the sand of that cursed desert, he was _smiling_ and he was _curious_ and this was _his Carlos_ again, by some miracle, and he knew better than to expect it to last but for just a moment they were both home again, they were both safe. 

“Hey,” Carlos said, and there was a little bit of that laugh in his voice, that my-silly-Cecil laugh he hadn’t heard in so long. “You lost your apple.”

And Cecil let out a small sound, which he was not willing to admit was half a sob.

After a moment, Carlos’ arms closed around him, held him as tight as he could with the plate of cheese still between them.

Then he pulled away and brushed the knuckles of one hand down Cecil’s cheek. “Lemme go rinse that. You’re not getting out of it so easily.” 

Carlos sat with him while he chewed his way through the apple, which he had to admit was rather good with the cheese. Before he could take care of it himself, Carlos took the empty plate from his lap and brought it to the kitchen. 

“I’m fine,” Cecil said, “really, I am.” He wondered for a second which of them he was trying to convince.

Carlos sat next to him on the sofa and reached an arm around his shoulder. “You should get some sleep, honey. You aren’t sleeping through the night.”

“Well, neither are you,” Cecil said, and it was supposed to be playful, but it just sounded shrill.

“C’mere.” Carlos pulled him closer. “We’ll watch a movie. Something you’ve seen before so it won’t matter if you doze off.”

Cecil laughed awkwardly. “Aren’t I supposed to be taking care of you?”

“I am sure there will be another occasion for you to smother me in your love and concern. But right now, it’s time for you to shut up and let me hold you.”

Cecil begrudgingly set his head against Carlos’ shoulder and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of him, unchanged since before their lives were ripped apart. After a few moments he shifted, throwing his legs over Carlos’ lap and pulling closer, feeling his arms circle him protectively.

Within ten minutes, he was asleep.


	4. Present and Absent

Cecil, Carlos noticed, was still telegraphing his movements--making extra noise when he came around corners, announcing himself when he was standing behind Carlos, moving slowly when approaching for a touch. Carlos was torn between embarrassment that he thought this necessary and gratitude that he cared enough to do it. 

Although it might not be just because he cared. Maybe he was just tired of Carlos jumping at sudden noises or whirling around on unexpected touches.

So when he cleared his throat loudly on his way in from the kitchen, Carlos searched his face carefully for evidence of--of whatever it was.

He looked tense, and uncomfortable. And was that--frustration? Disappointment?

“I’ve got some stuff to take care of,” he said. “I’ll be back later. Earl--” he gestured once, then turned and waved his hand again, and he was definitely making a face now. “--is gonna be around for a bit. He has a few things he needs to say to you anyway.” He turned his tense smile towards Earl. “Doesn’t he?”

“Fuck’s sake, Cecil, knock it off,” Earl grumbled. 

“Anyway. I’ll see you tonight.” Cecil looked down and the smile slipped away. He cleared his throat again.

And then he looked up suddenly, and his face was so--Carlos wasn’t sure how to identify the emotion. So he stood, in one quick motion, and kissed Cecil abruptly on the lips.

He didn’t know what else to do, honestly. It seemed to work--Cecil made a surprised little noise, and his hands fluttered to the sides of Carlos’ face like birds seeking a perch. 

And then he waited for Cecil to stop it, to get what he needed from it. 

After a moment, he did, and he was sweating slightly and just looked more confused than ever.

 _Shit, you bet on the wrong horse, Carlos._

Cecil raised a hand to his mouth, slowly, as though his mind wasn’t really involved in the process. “Uh.” His nervous little smile reappeared. “Okay. I’ll be back later. I love you.”

Earl and Carlos eyed each other suspiciously as he backed out of the room, in unspoken agreement to wait until he was out the door before either of them spoke.

“Was this your idea or his? Me needing a sitter?” Carlos asked. “Keep a close eye, Scout Master Harlan, or I might write another letter.”

“Don’t give me that.” Earl sat in the worn armchair and crossed his ankle over his knee. “And don’t play dumb. You have to know a thing or two about dissociative episodes at this point.”

“I’m a scientist, not a psychologist,” Carlos said hotly. 

“Yeah, a scientist who is gathering valuable first-hand experience here.” Earl started picking carefully at the upholstery. “Listen. I need to tell you something.”

Carlos said nothing. He knew his glare was probably a little petulant but it was difficult to help himself.

“Damnit, Carlos, we never have to like each other. Do you understand that? I’m not a threat to your relationship. I’m not a recurrent problem.” He rubbed his face with a hand that dropped quickly back to his lap. “Everyone thinks I have--feelings about Cecil. And I did. When I was _fourteen_ and he was like a ray of sunshine, the extent to which he did not give a shit was staggering. But--good lord is he a mess. Have you noticed? That he’s a mess? Yeah, not a good match. You’re a much better balance, and you two have complimentary baggage now. And now I’ve got Roger to worry about--” He waved a hand. “Trust me. There are no intimate longings in the Harlan heart for Cecil.”

He seemed to be waiting for Carlos to say something. Why? His face was unintelligible. But Carlos was having a difficult time caring about what Earl wanted. “This is a strange way to start an apology.”

“I’m getting there. Whether my feelings are--romantic or not, he’s still my best friend. My only friend, really.” He rubbed his face again, and looked to Carlos. When he got no response, he went on, “Do you know what it’s like? Being stuck at one age, while everyone else drifts off, stops being able to relate to you? Like they’re suddenly embarrassed of you? Cecil was the only one who stuck around. Kept talking to me. You know how his timeline is, and his mind is--whatever. He just really seemed to care about me. He was the last and best friend I had at that point.”

“You have to notice he forgets you more often then he remembers.” Carlos realized too late that that might be a little cruel.

“Yeah. And?”

“Like, months at a time he doesn't think of you at all. How does your friendship survive that?”

Earl should have been upset. Or at least angry. But he just shrugged. “He doesn’t remember things like I do. Not with, you know.” He gestured vaguely at his own head. 

Carlos imitated the gesture back, confused. 

“His long term memory is fucking shot. The emotional connections are all scrambled, the images don’t line up, the order is all wrong.” Earl huffed, uncrossed his legs. “I’ve always thought he should be--angrier, about the whole thing. But he convinced himself he deserved it, so. Whatever.” 

Earl stood, bouncing on his toes. “I’m making coffee. You want coffee?” He left without waiting for an answer.

After a moment Carlos followed him into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. 

“Deserved what?” he asked, calmly. Too calmly, perhaps, because Earl set the hammer down and looked over his shoulder hesitantly. 

“I think--we’re a little off topic,” Earl said. “My point was, one way or the other we both care about him a lot. And I’m sorry I, uh, said all that shit. I had reason to be suspicious but you definitely had a right to be angry about it, and if you look at it that way--”

“Deserved _what_?” Carlos said again.

“That--re-education thing.”

“Which one?” As far as Carlos knew, Cecil hadn’t been pulled in for six months. _Unless there’s something he isn’t telling you._

“The first one, the one with--you know.” Earl resumed his smashing, grimacing at the beans on the counter.

“I mean--” Carlos paused and waited for the hammering to stop. “What I mean is, how do you deserve that? Isn’t it just, like, displaying forbidden knowledge or something?”

Earl, who was sweeping the crushed beans into a brown paper filter, paused mid-sweep and turned to face Carlos fully. “You don’t know, do you? What, did you think it was a coincidence?”

“What?”

“Cecil developed the process. Well, helped, anyway--he basically gave them everything they needed. That’s why what the Sheriff can do to you is so much like what he does. And then--” Earl picked up the hammer again and slammed it against a rogue bean with so much force that Carlos jumped. “--they tried to turn it on him, cover their tracks.” He slammed the hammer down again, although Carlos didn’t know if he was crushing anything in particular this time. “It didn’t work. They still didn’t really know what they were doing. They just sort of--scrambled the memories of that time, broke a lot of connections. Caused an awful lot of pain.” Earl swung again, and Carlos watched the muscles of his arm move, felt the smashing sound somewhere in the center of his chest. “That, at least, he remembers. The part where it hurt.”

He looked toward Carlos. “Go on, sit down, I’ll be there in a minute.” When Carlos didn’t move, he added, “Your startle reflex. I assume it wasn’t always so exaggerated. I can see you cringing in the corner of my eye. I don’t know what you think you’ll get out of forcing yourself to sit through it, but it probably won’t be good. I’ll bring your cup in when it’s done.”

 

Carlos went to bed early--he was too tense, too irritable, he couldn’t focus on work. He had reached a kind of truce with Earl, over the course of the afternoon. At the very least, he respected Earl’s ability to talk about all of these stupid little trauma things in a matter-of-fact way--he could say things like “are you having sense memories?” in exactly the same way he might tell a Scout “put pressure on it to stop the bleeding”.

Cecil meant well. Carlos knew that, understood it, appreciated it. But if he had to tell anyone details of what had occurred--hypothetically, because ideally he would not think of them consciously again--it was good to know he had an option who would be able to bear up stoically in the face of it.

Assuming Earl would be interested in helping at all.

He slept lightly, surfacing a few times to reach through the depths of the sheets seeking a body that was not there. He did not dream, as far as he was aware. 

Once he thought he heard hushed voices, considered getting up to see what the fuss was (and if it was about him, as most of the fusses in this house seemed to be lately), but he dozed out again before he could even start to interpret the voices. 

It was impossible to say how much time had passed before the bed shifted again, and he awoke suddenly, disoriented.

“It’s just me.”

It took a split second to place the whispered voice in his groggy head. “Cecil,” he said thickly.

“Uh-huh.” He felt the sheets shift and pull, a hand in the small of his back and a kiss on his temple, so gentle he barely noticed it. “Go back to sleep. Early day tomorrow.”

“Hmm?”

“Doctor tomorrow. Remember?”

“Oh god,” Carlos moaned. “I forgot entirely. Are you sure we have to--”

“It’s a follow-up, honey, it’s just routine.”

“I don’t trust him.” Carlos pushed himself up on his elbows and squinted through the gloom in Cecil’s general direction. “I don’t know anything about him, his practice, his qualifications, I don’t even know his name--”

“I know him, Carlos. I trust him. He’s one of the few people in that line of work that I do trust.”

“Did he help?” 

Cecil gently pressed on Carlos’ back, as if encouraging him to settle back into the bed. “Help with what, sweetie?”

“With the stuff you did? For the City Council?”

The hand on his back went suddenly still, and Carlos could feel the tension that radiated up Cecil’s arm and probably through his whole body.

“Is that why you trust him?”

Cecil said nothing. Carlos felt the warm palm pulled away, the shifting of the mattress as Cecil sat up. 

“Carlos,” Cecil said, and his voice was stiff and flat. “Remember when I asked you what happened and you said--you said there were things about you that you didn’t want me to know?”

“Yeah?” Carlos was a little groggy, still, a little lost.

“There are things about me,” he said, very carefully, “that I don’t want you to know. And we’re not going to talk about them. We’re just going to move on.”

“S’okay.” Carlos patted his hand up and down the bed, seeking some part of Cecil to touch, to soothe. “You know you can tell me anything, I won’t--”

“Stop.” The bedsprings squeaked as Cecil stood up. “I can’t. I can’t do that. Not--not with you.”

“Why not?”

Silence. 

“Cecil, if my mistakes are worth talking about--”

“That’s different. It’s very, very different.”

“How?”

There was movement around the bed, and then a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“Right,” the doctor said, his face falling as he locked the door. “Brass tacks.”

“Um.” Cecil cleared his throat, and seemed to struggle for words. 

“I’m fine,” Carlos said, taking the opportunity to steer the conversation while he saw it. “I think I’m recovering normally. There are some tough days, sure, but there always are. Everything’s going--”

“Carlos, take off your shirt,” Cecil said quietly.

“What?”

“Don’t fight me on this please.” He cleared his throat again and looked away, then up at the doctor’s face. “I did some research. I got into the Archives--”

“Wait, how did you--”

“I got in and I saw...some things. I’ve got a--a friend, who’s looking into it--it’s way more advanced scholarship than I’m capable of--” He laughed uncomfortably. “But. There are some, uh, marks that might be relevant?”

“What kind of marks?” 

“Uh. What do you know about the Smiling God?”

There was a tense silence. 

“Cecil.”

“Will you just--”

“Cecil _what the fuck_ did you bring into my--”

“It’s fine!” Cecil hissed. He waved his upturned finger again in an arch, as he had the last time.

“Fuck the faraday cage, you brought demonology into my office like I can do something about it!” The doctor, possibly forgetting where he was, pulled battered pack from his pocket and lit a cigarette with a distracted air. 

“It’s tied to--to whatever happened out there. Whatever he did to--to Carlos.”

The doctor shook his head. “You better look elsewhere, Cecil. I can refer you to someone who--”

“ _You owe me_.” The tone was unfamiliar, and Carlos wondered for a moment if there was any sort of influence behind it. 

But Cecil wouldn’t do that.

All the same, was suddenly too scared to speak up again.

“Come on, you’re gonna drag that up again?”

“Oh, of course, because that would be _impolite_.” Cecil’s voice was low and nasty. “Listen to me. You don’t have to worry about--about any of that. Alright? Just take a look.”

Carlos shook his head hastily and tripped as he climbed down from the exam table. “Cecil, you said I wouldn’t have to--you said this was _routine_ \--”

"It’s okay.” Cecil was smiling again, a tense and distracted grimace that Carlos didn’t like at all. “Don’t be upset. It’s fine.”

“ _Nothing is fine when there are demons involved._ ”

“Oh, he was being dramatic,” Cecil said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “it’s not actual demonology, it’s just some fiddly little Smiling God--”

“Some fiddly little black magic!”

Cecil crossed the room in long steps and placed his hands careful on Carlos’ shoulders. “Listen. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We're going to help you. And that--that would be, just, _so much easier_ if you would just cooperate with the doctor. Okay?”

The next few moments were oddly split--Carlos was aware of fear, and anger, and hurt, felt his forehead rest against Cecil’s shoulder, felt the bones move under the skin as Cecil’s arms moved, felt them pull him close. But it was like it was already a memory--the emotions were just words in his head, the sensations amplified by time that had not passed yet.

Carlos wondered for a second if Cecil, holding him close, rocking gently side to side, was aware of this.

Either way, they were interrupted by a sharp cough from the doctor, and the hiss of his cigarette going out as he tossed it into the sink. “In your own time,” he said, in a tone that clearly implied _let’s just get this over with._

Cecil laid Carlos’ lab coat and shirt carefully across his lap when he sat back down on the plastic chair. Carlos kept his eyes focused on the far wall and sat, facing away, on the exam table. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything. Maybe there was just the slightest bit of professional courtesy in him--

“Well fuck me sideways.”

\--but apparently not. 

“What were the circumstances?” he asked, and it took a second for Carlos to realize that the doctor was talking to him. “What happened, aside from, uh the obvious--?”

“Oh, we’re not going into that,” Carlos said. His eyes felt so dry all of the sudden and he squeezed them shut. Probably because it was so bright in here, maybe the light on the white walls was straining his eyes like that cold distant sun. 

“Carlos, please. You have to tell someone, right?” Cecil was standing behind him too, with the doctor, looking at him, probably upset, probably pitying, probably still a little angry--

“I can’t help you unless I have more information.”

\--probably thinking _this wouldn’t have happened if you'd tried harder to come home_.

“Well,” Carlos said, more harshly than he was initially aware of, “I’m sorry to hear that, doctor, but I’m not--no. No.”

There was a tense pause, and then some prodding at his back, firm strokes of a finger here and there.

“This--this is some blood magic bullshit,” the doctor hissed under his breath.

“I think--” Cecil lowered his voice, and if he was capable of movement--if he wasn’t already dizzy and embarrassed and sick--Carlos would have said something, done something, because why would Cecil lower his voice to talk about him, like he didn’t need to know what was being said? “I think it’s a trap, like there’s a trigger? I don’t understand everything I read, but if he set this up--if it’s connected to whatever he said to him, while they were out there--”

“So you think maybe the blood magic thing worked with the voice thing.”

There was a little hole in the wall.

“What I saw...listen, what I saw was violent enough.”

It looked like a nail had been pulled out. Maybe there was a painting there, once. Or a diploma. 

“It was. He.” A throat cleared and Carlos was unsure whose it was. “I don’t know if it was related to this, or if he was just--maybe he just likes hurting people, but it was. Uh. There was some blood involved.”

Doctors sometimes hung diplomas in their office, didn’t they? Carlos struggled to remember the last time he’d even been to a doctor’s office.

“Any ritualistic behavior?”

“Just standard creepy horribleness. Nothing I recognized.”

But this was an exam room, that wasn’t the same as an office, was it? And maybe this wasn’t a place where you were supposed to know someone’s name.

“How much blood are we talking about here?”

“Uh. Bloody nose. Might have split his lip, busted his forehead open. It’s closed up but he’d probably show you. It’s under his hair.”

“Yeah, that might be helpful. Carlos, may I?”

The blurry face of the doctor obscured his view of the little hole, and Carlos blinked, trying to refocus on this person who was suddenly way too close.

The doctor snapped his fingers in front of Carlos’ eyes. “Come back to the room--shit--hey, wake up--”

Someone inhaled sharply from behind, and a too-warm hand landed carefully on his shoulder and crept up to the back of his neck.


	5. Gods and Monsters

Agitating Carlos was like splitting an atom; the sudden explosion of sound and movement did not seem like something that could have been contained in his body, and the detonation in the doctor’s office was distinctly aggressive.

He’d been staring off again. Cecil attempted a soothing touch on the back of Carlos’ neck and he was off like a shot, springing from the exam table at the doctor, putting his hands in the center of his chest and shoving, hard.

“Get away from me _get away_ \--”

He spun away from the falling doctor, landing in a fearful crouch at the end of the exam table before seeming to come back to himself, blinking rapidly.

Cecil ducked in front of him with his hands spread at his side. Carlos pinched the bridge of his nose, mumbled under his breath and lowered himself the rest of the way to the floor.

“God _damnit--_ ”

“You’re okay. It’s okay. Look.” Cecil extended his hands. “You’re in control here. Okay? You’re safe.” He sat on the floor across from Carlos and, lacking any other choices, waited.

“Will you please stop staring at me?” Carlos asked through his teeth.

“Okay.” Something else seemed to be called for, but Cecil had nothing to say. “Okay.” He cleared his throat loudly.

They sat in silence for a moment. Then there was shuffling from behind Cecil and the doctor came into view, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily. 

“You could stop all this,” Carlos said, and his voice was bitter. “Why are you still so angry with me? What do I have to do--how _sorry_ do I have to be--”

“Carlos, sweetie, what are you talking about?” Cecil reached for Carlos, then stopped, pulled his hand away. He didn’t want to startle him again, he was already so upset. “No one's angry with you, okay, and you don't have to be--”

“How many words would it take? Three? Six? A dozen?” Carlos pulled his knees to his chest and glared at Cecil. “Three sentences, tops, and this all goes away. No more dreams, no more spacing out, no more--losing control. You could make all of this go away and you _won’t_ , will you, you’re going to keep _punishing me_ for letting this happen in the first place--”

“Carlos. No.” Cecil shook his head, rubbed his forehead, suddenly tight, suddenly afraid. “Even if I could--even if I would, ever--I could never--to you.”

“ _Why not?_ ” The rage in his voice was nearly tangible and there were angry tears in his eyes. “I know what you can do, I know how you do it. You do it all the time, don’t you, at work?”

“It’s not the same--”

“ _You could._ You could take all of this away, Cecil, you could delete it all, you could make this stop--”

“No. It’s not like shredding papers. It’s--it’s an act of violence. It is a violation and I’ve already hurt enough people and I would never, ever hurt you like that, so please don’t--don’t talk like it’s something I’m _withholding_ from you.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “He does have a point, Cecil. And you don’t have to do it, we could--”

Cecil was on his feet before he was aware he was moving, reeling on the doctor. “Don’t you touch him. Don’t you _dare_. You _know_ why. You make it sound so easy but you know it’s not, you know what it could do. You know what it did.”

The doctor looked appropriately guilty and coughed into his fist. “It was just a suggestion. We’re much better at it now.” He fumbled with his uneven tie and didn’t seem able to meet Cecil’s glare. “We’re not as--efficient, as you could be, but the effect would be much less catastrophic.”

“ _No_.”

“You could?” Carlos looked past Cecil, and the hope on his face twisted Cecil’s stomach. “You could fix this?”

“ _No,_ ” Cecil snapped again. He turned to Carlos, dropped to his knees, only distantly aware of the sting as he hit the floor. “Listen to me. You don’t know what you’re asking for, Carlos, please, trust me, just _trust me_ , it’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t even know what--you said there was a trap, a trigger--”

“It was just a thought, Carlos, just theory, nothing more. It’s probably nothing. It’s probably just me being--overprotective.” _controlling possessive paranoid selfish_

No. There was no time for that now.

“You know what?” Cecil tried to laugh, just a bit. “I bet it’s nothing. Just your silly little blabbermouth, worrying about nothing. Let’s get out of here, okay? Let’s go home. We’ll just go home.” He pulled himself to his feet and offered a hand to Carlos.

Carlos stared resentfully at the hand and rose on his own with a slight stumble.

There was no jovial pretense when they left; no one seemed to have the energy for handshakes or smiles. But at the door, the doctor pulled Cecil’s arm back, hissed in his ear, “If there’s something to this, check the back of his neck for a mark. That’s what set him off, when you touched there. If it’s a trap, that’s the trigger.”

 

Hours later, sitting at the kitchen table, was the first time in years Cecil wished for a smoke.

He’d quit over a decade ago. Probably. It had been a while, at least. And for the most part he hardly thought about it. But apparently the response was still there, a craving for self-destruction, provoked by a feeling of hopelessness.

Carlos was asleep. He’d refused food or water or tea or even an embrace. When they got home, he’d just collapsed into bed, and when Cecil had checked on him he was sound asleep, face pinched and unhappy, his breathing faster than usual.

“So you don’t think I--set off a trap?”

Tamika shook her head, rifled through the papers absently. “No. No way. First of all, he would have broken that doctor’s neck. You’d probably be, I dunno, chained up in the basement for torturing. He managed to walk off the conditioning, but blood magic is, like, a whole other thing. And it's all-or-nothing, there's no partial credit.” She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands. “Hey, how did you get this stuff, anyway? Hall of Public Records?”

Cecil shook his head. “Archives,” he said, as dismissively as he could. 

“Holy shit, no way! How’d she get you in there?”

“Who--Janice? No, she had nothing to do with this--” He looked meaningfully at the wall sconce and said, as clearly and distinctly was he could, “Janice Carlsberg had nothing to do with this.”

“Then how--”

“Forget about it.”

Her eyes sparkled. Tamika was bright, in a way that was dangerous, and her taste for knowledge could be a risk to everyone. “Could you get me in?” she asked breathlessly.

“ _Forget it_.”

She sighed and went back to her papers. “Anyway. It’s probable that whatever happened has nothing to do with the engravings, but was just, like, basic trauma stuff. I can’t know for sure until you show me the engravings.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Uh.” Tamika tapped her fingers against the table. “Okay, I can leave you with this stuff, but it would probably be much fast if you’d just let me--”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. It’s--he’s really...upset. About the whole thing? Like, embarrassed, or ashamed or something. Like it’s his fault.”

“Well he doesn’t have to be there when I check them out.”

“They’re--they’re _on him_ , Tamika. He kind of has to be.”

She paused. “Oh,” she said, and then, again, smaller, “oh.”

“Yeah.” Cecil fidgeted in his chair, and his chest itched in a way it hadn’t in years. 

There was an uncomfortable silence, during which she sipped her iced tea and cleared her throat loudly. “So I guess--I’ll just leave these with you, then. I've made notes that might help you figure out what happened. There’s a few questions you should ask--I put those on the back there--uh, and if he hasn’t seen an exorcist recently he should probably have a quick check-up at some point, especially if his soul strength is low.”

“I’m not sure he’s ever seen an exorcist,” Cecil said, “getting him to agree to that appointment will be a delight.” He rubbed his eyes. 

“He’ll probably be fine,” Tamika said, possibly in what she thought was a reassuring tone. “Just some run-of-the-mill trauma, I bet.”

“Run-of-the-mill--” Cecil choked out a bitter little laugh. It was easy to forget that Tamika was still a child, educated and clever beyond her years though she may be. “Thanks. You need a ride home?”

“Nah, I’ve got my bike,” she said brightly. “Let me know if there’s anything you don’t understand.”

He should have seen her to the door. That would have been the polite thing to do. But he sat and stared at the papers and craved the bad choices of his foolish youth.

Long after the door closed, he got up and poured a cup of coffee, sat back down and shuffled through the papers, hoping to find purpose, or hope, or anything, really.

 

“Have you been to bed yet?”

Cecil turned in his chair and set down the felt-tipped marker with which he had been making notes. “Not yet.”

“What day is it?” Carlos’ voice was still thick with sleep. He’d been out for about ten hours, and looked like he wanted about ten more. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, like a small child.

“It’s Saturday. Want some coffee? Or brunch?” Cecil tried to keep his voice bright and casual, to keep the panic out of his movements as he swept the papers spread across the table into something like an orderly pile. He didn’t want Carlos to see them, for fear of setting him off again.

“No, I’m alright.” Carlos flopped heavily into a chair on the other side of the table. Based on his look, he’d noticed Cecil casually leaning over the pile of papers, resting his hand on his chin, but said nothing about it. 

“Can I, uh do something?” Cecil bit down on the inside of his cheeks to keep his expression even. 

“Uh.” There was an exhausted little chuckle. “Depends on what it is, I guess?”

“I just want to check--don’t freak out, okay? I need to see something.”

“See what?” Carlos was still smiling, but his eyes were distrustful. There was nothing else for it--Cecil was going to have to say it out loud.

“There’s a--mark, I need to look for. Back of your neck.”

“Ah.” Carlos tapped his nails against the table and his smile faltered slightly. “The trigger.”

“Apparently it’s more like a cap, or a cork, or something? I don’t know, it’s been a long time since high school, and they changed like half the terms and I was never very good at this stuff anyway--” Cecil cleared his throat, mostly in hopes of shutting himself up, and tapped his index finger against his forehead. “I know it’s a sensitive spot. For you. It’s something he seemed to...focus on, during the conditioning, but it’ll only take a second.”

Carlos leaned over without a word, smoothing his thick, curly hair forward with both hands.

Cecil wasn’t expecting that, and found himself a little unsettled by the sudden, submissive gesture. But should he move quickly, get it over with and let his poor sweet Carlos go back to bed? Or slowly, avoiding sudden movements so as not to upset or frighten him?

“Ceec, can you just--?”

The roughness of Carlos’ voice startled Cecil out of this thoughts and he clambered out of his chair, tripping over the table leg. He stood as far away from Carlos’ bent form as he could and still see.

“Carlos,” he said slowly, “I have to touch you. I’m--I’m sorry.”

The responding nod was so small as to be almost imperceptible. 

Cecil carefully brushed his fingers through the hair at the base of Carlos’ head, felt the muscles tense under even this light touch. He traced light circles, feeling for a bump, or a rough patch of scabs, or smooth lines of scar tissue.

“Nothing,” he sighed, pulling his hand back. “You’re okay.” He moved his hand carefully to Carlos’ shoulder. “Breathe, sweetheart. You’re good.”

Carlos was silent as he stood, shaking his head slightly, probably unconsciously, and walked slowly towards the bedroom.

“Carlos--Carlos, are you alright?” Cecil asked, berating himself internally for the pleading in his voice, the fear. As though his fear could somehow be greater than Carlos’, as though his fear mattered at all.

Carlos stopped moving but did not turn. “I don’t know,” he said wearily.

But he reached back with his right hand and held it out. After a second, Cecil approached, slowly, and took it.

 

Cecil woke with a faceful of Carlos’ hair, soft and smooth and smelling like dandruff shampoo. He smiled and stretched lazily, pulling his face out of the tangle of curls, and he was happy.

And then he glanced down and saw Carlos’ bare back, the healing cuts and angry red scars, and the memory of the last month came suddenly, forcefully back, leaving no room for happiness, and he wanted nothing more than to go back to the heavy, dreamless sleep he’d just left. 

Carlos rolled over and opened one eye. “M’glasses?” He asked thickly.

There were on the Cecil’s cluttered nightstand, since Carlos had fallen asleep with them on and was snuggled so close that Cecil couldn’t reach over to get them to the other side of the bed.

“What time is it?” Carlos stretched his arms over his head, squinting at Cecil through the smudged lenses. 

“Uh. Evening?”

Carlos half sat against the pillows, his gaze curiously intense. Cecil reached for his own glasses, polished the lenses on the sheet, putting off the moment when he would have to meet that gaze again, not sure how he could answer whatever question went with it. 

But now he’d run out of stalls. He settled the little round glasses on the end of his nose and looked up.

“What were you researching?”

“What, that? Oh, it was just--you know. Some stuff. About like, rituals and things. Very, uh, esoteric, and--”

“ _Cecil_.”

He was caught. He sighed. “It’s--Smiling God stuff. I wanted to see if there was anything else we should be worried about, any way I can help you.”

“So there’s no--trigger point, or whatever. Is there...anything else? We should worry about?” Carlos’ voice sounded strange, even but not calm, fear simmering below the surface. 

“No. Not that I can see.” And the reality of that situation-- _he’s home and he’s safe and that foul man can’t hurt him here, my sweet Carlos will be okay_ \--hit abruptly, and he smiled. “You’re in the clear. I think I see what he was doing--if I’m reading the runes properly, which I may not be--but he didn’t get to finish it. It’s like he wrote a whole letter to his Smiling God, and ran out of time before he could address and stamp the envelope. You’re safe.”

Carlos did not smile. Cecil watched his hands curl into fists in his lap, curling the sheets around his knuckles. The stillness of the surface slipped and the undercurrent of hurt and anger and fear reappeared.

Cecil waited. Should he ask what was wrong? Would that be prying, pushing? Or was Carlos waiting for him to ask, to prove he cared? Finally, he settled for saying, “If you want to talk about it, I can explain some of it.”

Still, Carlos said nothing. He stared ahead, but not far off, not lost somewhere. His gaze was focused, and it was pained.

“You have to tell me at some point, Carlos,” Cecil went on, mostly to fill the silence, “or at least you have to tell someone. Eventually. If you just--”

“ _You first._ ”

“--you can--what?”

“You go first,” Carlos said again. “You seem to think that whatever you did makes you irredeemable, somehow. I feel similarly. And I want to know what ‘beyond forgiveness’ looks like to you.”

“Please don’t.” Cecil looked away, traced his fingers over the green paisley print on the sheets. “It’s entirely different, Carlos, you were--you--I wasn’t influenced, or tricked, I was just foolish and naive and _stupid_ , and _selfish_ , and--and--” He tried to swallow the hysteria; suddenly this was too big for him, too much, squeezing his chest tight. 

“How do you know?” Carlos said. “How can you tell? They tried to reset you, didn’t they? Or whatever. They messed up something. How do you know you’re remembering right?”

Cecil swallowed, again, again, trying to get the lump out of his throat. “I’m gonna kill Earl, I swear on all the gods in the tiered Heavens.”

The mattress shifted as Carlos adjusted his posture, turning towards Cecil, seeking eye contact. “I’m glad he told me,” he said. “You certainly weren’t going to.”

Cecil risked a glance at Carlos’ face, then looked away again. Of course. “Yeah. You had a right to know. What kind of person you’re living with.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Carlos shifted again and pulled Cecil close. Cecil closed his eyes for a moment, letting his head rest on Carlos’ shoulder. “I don’t have a right to know everything there is to know about you. Everyone has secrets. But this one is clearly a big weight on you. I'd like you to tell me.”

“This is--Carlos, we’re doing this backwards--your situation is way more important right now--”

“Well, yours happened earlier. _And_ I asked first. So you go.”

The inarguable logic of the schoolyard, the first objective standard one learns; Cecil knew better than to argue. 

“You know--I already told you--the thing with my brother. See, when you already hate yourself, there isn’t a whole hell of a lot you won’t do. You can’t sink any lower, or at least you tell yourself that. So when the Sheriff knocks on your door very solemnly, waits for you to answer instead of just letting himself in, and calls you ‘son’--”

“Wait, son like old white guys call people son? Or son like--?”

Cecil shrugged. “I don’t know. I still don’t know.” He laughed, and it sounded weak and tired. “I’m not sure I want to.”

Carlos nodded. “Sorry. Please go on.”

“He said, ‘son, do you miss your brother?’ and at that point I didn’t even remember him at all--I still don’t even remember his _name,_ isn’t that awful?--and anyway he knew my mother, whether she trusted him or not, and he made a lot of things easier for Abby, with Janice and everything. He said I could do something for my community, for my home, and not because of fate or prophecy or an accident of birth. Just to make a choice. To just decide to do the right thing. So, I trusted him. I met the doctor--the one you’ve been seeing.

"And then, over the course of three years, I taught them how to do brain surgery with a machete.” He coughed to cover a little noise of anguish that tried to squeeze its way out. “Metaphorically speaking.”

“It didn’t seem--I dunno, wrong? At the time?”

“They started small,” he said. “Recordings to analyse, for pitch and tone and whatnot, physical examination to see if it was something in my throat or my vocal cords. Innocent enough, and it was just the low level suggestion I do at work. It’s like giving the whole town half a xanax at the same time. And you’ve lived here long enough--you know we can get hysterical about anything. It was for crowd control, stuff like that. And I thought, _this is great_ , like if they could find out how to do it they wouldn’t need me, maybe I could have a normal life or something.”

“But they couldn’t do it. Whatever it was, they couldn’t recreate it, and even the recordings had no effect. So then they wanted to observe it in action. And one day--god, I’m an idiot--I was using the low level suggestions, and they just kept saying things. ‘Come on, get it together in there’, stuff like that, but then--one of them said--they said, ‘I guess we got the wrong Palmer boy’. And at that point, I’d remembered what happened. With my brother.”

“What did you do?” Carlos asked, and his voice was soft, but the question still stung. Because Carlos knew he would have done something, and it was just a question of what; there was no possible scenario where Cecil had been the better person and not lashed out.

“I told him to shut the fuck up about my family. And at that point I didn’t really know what I could do--I knew I had the voice thing or whatever, and that at one point I wished a living being...away, somehow. I didn’t know about degrees of intensity, or the difference between suggestions or commands, or any of that. I just...really wanted him to shut up.

“So that man--one of the Secret Police, I don’t know which--he couldn’t speak. There was nothing physically wrong with him, just mouth and throat wouldn’t do what his brain wanted. It lasted like 24 hours. I mean, it was relatively weak--probably like a Level B, maybe a C?--but it was a complete surprise to almost everyone.” Cecil’s voice dropped, dark with an anger he didn’t realize was still this intense. “Everyone except the Sheriff. I think he told them to make it difficult, to see what I would do.

“But they couldn’t recreate that, either. So then there was more research, more experiments, more recordings--trying to find a way to replicate what I could do without words, to quantify the unquantifiable. Suggesting people stay calm, or finish their census forms, or stay away from the Dog Park, that’s all well and good, but...altering memory? Severing the connection between the brain and body? Causing physical changes in the brain? I wasn’t sure about all that. ‘Come on, Palmer,’ they’d say, ‘don’t get squeamish now.’ ‘It’s for the good of the whole community. Think of the next generation.’ 'You're already in this pretty deep, seeing it through is the lesser sin.'” He shook his head fast. He’d spent years of his life carefully not remembering the sounds of their voices and the things they said, and here he was rehashing it, laying it bare for the person he loved the most, pinning his shame for examination like butterflies on corkboard.

"And that, they managed to do. Clumsily, and--painfully. But they can do it. And I did my part--” he laughed, hollow and dry. “--for the good of my community. And then they turned it on me.”

He heard Carlos ask, “What did they do to you?” But it was far away, distant, somewhere on the other side of the this hazy, hateful shame. 

“I don’t know.” He said. “I don’t remember. I know that it hurt. I know that they were still just guessing at that point, and didn’t manage to remove anything; they just sort of scrambled things around. It could have killed me, or left me braindead, but I’m not sure they cared. I don’t think they understood, at least not then, that I’m more than just… _useful_.”

He felt Carlos’ hand rest lightly on his, fingers sliding over the back of his hand. But there wasn’t much comfort in it. “You know, even without the violence, or the attempt at blood magic, or whatever else happened, what he did to you was a violation. An invasion of the most sacred part of a person. This voice is not a tool, it’s a weapon. It’s a curse. And I used it over, and over, and _over_ , even though I never did--it was never as bad as that one time, I still hurt so many people, gave them the tools to hurt so many more.”

Cecil sat up, pulled his head from Carlos’ shoulder, but did not look at him. “So that’s how I define ‘unforgivable’, and since you didn’t do anything wrong--”

“Cecil, I made my fair share of bad choices, and I should have just trusted you in the first place--”

“No, that’s not--that’s just standard human weakness. You can’t be blamed for that. There was no malice, and by the time there was malice you weren’t in control of your thoughts. So, again, since you didn’t do anything wrong, I can’t forgive you because there is nothing you need to apologize to me _for_.” 

They were silent for a moment, watching the sunlight fade in the gap of the dark curtains. 

“Your turn,” Cecil said softly.

Carlos sighed, and it sounded so heavy, so painful, that it squeezed Cecil’s already tight and aching heart. And in the hot stillness of the night, Carlos began to speak.


End file.
